Writer's Bullocks

I am not able to conjure up new posts at my will these days. It has become difficult to write humor and satire amid so much death, destruction, and depravity. It stresses me out when I can’t write. When I told all this to a friend, she opined that I must be having writer’s bullock. Initially, I did not understand her, but when I contemplated on it later, the picture became clear. Writers should have unicorns, flying horses, birds-of-paradise, butterflies, and so on. Bullocks are for farmers and village people. When a writer has bullocks, he or she cannot write.

In my imagination I saw two bullocks and they were not allowing me to write. They had a cartload of books, and implied that until I read all those books, they were not going to leave me. I considered it a pleasant break from the nerve-racking 24-hour news grind, which is then magnified by bloggers, and then further bombarded by Facebook and Twitter friends.

Writer's Bullocks

After going through a couple of lovely novels, I picked up The Last Mughal by William Dalrymple. It was an action-packed thriller with first-hand reports and direct quotes from the people who had witnessed and participated in the 1857 revolt and its suppression. And when I finished reading the book, I was exhausted and depressed by the exploits of the sepoys and the British soldiers. The book presented horrifying accounts of killings by swords, guns, and hangings. At the end, the whole city of Delhi was destroyed; its streets awash with blood, and piled with dead bodies, all the inhabitants either dead or ousted. Many more starved and died in the wilderness outside the city wall.

The City of Delhi, 1857 (via britishempire.co.uk)

This was far far worse than any recent tragedy. The book has left me very sad and dejected, giving me nightmares. I have now decided to pick up a lighter book.

I suppose, until I don’t read all the books in the cart, the bullocks are not going to leave me. Hence in the coming days, I will be less active in the blogosphere.